


Charming Billy

by lemonlovely



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Abuse, Catholicism, Child Abuse, Derogatory Language, Fix-It, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Season/Series 03, Redemption, Slow Burn, Slurs, Spoilers, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2020-06-22 07:19:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19662505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonlovely/pseuds/lemonlovely
Summary: It was then that the pulsing in Billy's breast started, tearing him into two halves – with each pound of his heart, and it reminded him of something – of veins, veins turned black, black as ink, stuttering with his heartbeat like a cut on a finger. But it was – it was his entire chest; he felt flayed open. Like a goddamn fucking trout, pisshole to gills, a mess of guts and organs spilling out of him.He gave a wheeze as the sudden wave of pain gripped him, caught him in it’s grasp, wouldn’t let go. He seized up, a cough tearing it’s way up his throat, so dry it shook out of him like some kinda death rattle. His torn fingers smacked at the clanging metal below him, slapping to the sides then, searching for – for anything in the dark, but – it was just more metal. More, more metal – metal to the sides, metal above him. Below him. On all sides, like a box – like, it was a coffin. It was a coffin, it was a coffin, he was – buried alive – he was – he -Billy tried to scream. Tried to scream, but his throat only gave a weak gasp as he clawed at the flawlessly smooth metal above him. Ragged nails catching at nothing. Desperate, frantic, scrabbling like a rat in a cage.Buried alive.“ANYONE!”





	1. Buried

**Author's Note:**

> Season 3 Spoilers ahead
> 
> Charming Billy traditional folksong : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_fuJz2u7oCM

Billy was hot. 

Jesus Christ. But not in like a good way – not in a good way sort of ‘hot,’ where he could preen and agree, yeah, he was pretty fuckin’ hot, yeah? No. Not that kind of hot.

He was goddamn melting like one of those creepy wax sculptures at the Hollywood Wax Museum he’d gone to as a kid for a field trip, the ones with the staring glass eyes and candle wax skin – mere imitations of real life that could never compete with the real deal. And that’s how he felt now, too. Empty. Hollow, formed of fragile pliable wax, his eyes plucked out of his skull to be replaced by blank blue dolls eyes, and it hurt, everything hurt so bad. There was a pounding in his head, a fierce ache behind each eye socket, explosions of pressure, and he knew it had to be because his eyes weren’t _real_ anymore – they weren’t his own eyes. They felt like someone else’s. Someone else was looking out. 

He knew he should be paying attention – Billy had a job to do. He had a pool spread out in front of him, full of swimmers, he vaguely remembered, and if he could just crack his eyelids open enough against the burning glare of the sun…but the rays slipped like ice picks past his lashes. He only saw a jumbled, bright blur of arms thrown high, the dazzle of a multi-hued beach ball bouncing around. A piccaso-esque post-impressionist painting of bright swimming suits and golden skin, the colors too much, too much, like he was tripping on acid – Starry Night in the middle of the day. Whorls and whorls of neon color and sickening waves of glimmering heat - they were fucking choking him. 

Billy felt himself starting to sway in the seat, high above it all, removed from everything and everyone. Alone. Even the red umbrella above him didn’t seem to make a difference – not at this time of day, early enough in the morning that the angle of the sun was bearing right down on him. Billy fumbled for the plastic grip of the arm rest, and for a moment, honestly thought he might pass out – pitch forward and crack his head open on the fucking cement like an over ripe melon, which is exactly what it felt like – a rotting spoiled fruit plopped on top of his neck – and maybe that would be better than whatever hell he’d found himself in.

He was sick. He had to be sick. Sun sick? There wasn’t any other explanation for it – that’s why he was so hot. He had a fever, yeah. Had to be it. He was burning up with a fever like those people in the movies where they had to – to sweat the fever out, or no, no maybe it was an ice bath – they took an ice bath to lower their body temperature. He couldn’t remember which – sweat it out, or ice it down? 

Billy didn’t remember getting down off the chair. He didn’t remember his bare feet hitting the pavement. And he didn’t remember not cracking his rotten fruit of a head open on the pavement, spilling out the seeds and guts of his brain on cement. He didn’t remember that. 

Time gave a skip and a jump, and he was in the showers. And the water was blessedly cold. It was so cold, tempering his burning skin, the pounding ache in his head. If he could just stay here forever. Never move. Then he felt something – that sharp ache in his elbow, from when he’d smashed Lenore into the side of the road over by the steel works – or was it something after that? But it was spreading, pulsing, like when you got a cut on your finger and you could feel the heartbeat steadily focusing there – he could feel _that_ , spreading from his elbow – pounding in his veins. He looked down. And they were – it was – black. Black, spreading. And he felt it. There – in the back of his head. Right at the nape of his neck, tingling up – like pins and needles, like when you – when you caught a specific smell, and it reminded you of a memory you’d forgotten you even had…it was like…like that…

Ice. He was grabbing handfuls of ice packs out of the huge old freezer ice box outside the front of the 7-11. Fistfulls of them. Clutching them to his chest like bags of snuff and walking off without paying – lifting them with ease. Then they were floating in a tub, the one he knew was from his house – Neil’s house. But when did he get to the house? He was lowering himself into the water, still in his clothes. It was like a soothing balm over a sunburn covering his body. Head to toe. He shuddered, lashes fluttering as he immersed himself. Sank into it until his head was under water too, and everything was a shimmering veil of ice cubes drifting listlessly above him. Bubbles trailed from his lips, dolls eyes wide open. He felt the whisper – at the back of his head. Like a scratching. Inside of his skull. 

Screaming. There was screaming. He tried to tell them – tried to tell them to be _calm,_ not to be _afraid_ – even if he was so afraid. He was terrified – he’d never been so scared in his whole goddamn life, how could he offer them any sort of comfort - ? when he was doing _this_ \- ? But what else could he do? 

His hands were shaking, he was shaking, he was shaking all the time, and he could constantly feel the prick of tears behind his eyes. His nose burned. But no one looked up. No one noticed. No one noticed as he _screamed._ No one even looked up. 

_Black._ Nothing but…nothing but black. And pain. Excruciating in the darkness. _Alone._ His hands with a mind of their own. His lips moving, sounds coming out. He had no air, though, no air for words. Not Billy. It was too dark. He tried to stop it. Tried to stop him. Jesus, he tried so bad. It was all _Him._

The _Shadow._

But then….

Pretty. She was pretty. And Billy…Billy was happy. 

Billy dreamed. 

There in the darkness, he dreamed. And he dreamed of her. 

Billy had few memories that were good, he supposed. Looking back on it – he’d always thought that’s just how life was. You could always remember the bad, but you could never remember the good. Or maybe there were only bad things to be remembered. That same, constant, old ache of pain in mending bones, or the hot sting of shame under his collar – nothing more to life than being a pussy. A faggot. Be better. Be stronger.

Because the world wasn’t kind and the world wasn’t fair.

But for once…just for once…he dreamed of her. And he remembered what was good. It came to him in a flood, a rush from another time, another place. Another world, another life. 

One where she still loved him. Still wanted him. 

Billy was small. His entire horizon was the ocean – endless before him, like the future, all blue blue blue! And the sun was so bright, and so warm on his skin, crusty with drying salt and sand sticking to his knees, to his toes. The board was heavy – and a little too big for him, bought second hand, but he could still manage it. He was a ‘big boy’ now his mother had informed him. He could manage a board. 

Her blonde hair, like his, was long and wavy, like cornsilk against the clouds and she was so happy – so happy. He never saw her so happy, he thought, than when his dad was away. They were both happy, her ‘n Billy. He’d shown off – wanted her to be proud of him – proud of him like his dad never was. Seven feet, seven feet! That was like a new record for him – he could practically be a pro, surely. He could make money, win prizes, and they could run away! Just the two of them.

The dream world shifted, changed. He was standing in her room in the old house in San Diego – the one he’d grown up in with the worn gray door and cheery marigolds in the window boxes. She turned to him, smiling, from her dressing table in a long, flowing peasant blouse dotted with flowers, and a skirt that spilled off the edge of her chair. She reached for him, ran a hand through his curls, and that smile was all for him. 

“Oh my Charming Billy.” She crooned at him. She loved that song, She’d always loved that song. 

She drew him into her arms, tugging him up onto her lap like he was still much smaller than he was. Pressing her cheek to his, humming and smiling at their reflections in the mirror with eyes that matched – bright blue eyes, and long lashes, like they were twins. Swaying, rocking him. Arms wrapped so tight around his middle, like she’d never let him go. Never. 

“Oh, where have you been, Billy Boy, Billy Boy? Oh, where have you been, Charming Billy? I have been to seek a wife, she's the joy of my life. But she's a young thing and cannot leave her mother…” 

She smelled like that rose perfume she liked real well. Her eyes crinkled when she smiled, and so did the bridge of her nose, like she said Billy’s did too – said he looked like a little bunny. She planted a kiss against his cheek, smearing lipstick to wipe away with a smile. He’d heard that song a million times, probably since he’d been in the cradle. He’d fallen asleep to that song more times than anyone could count. More times than stars in the sky. 

_He missed her._ And he didn’t hear that song anymore. Not for a long time. Never would again, he thought with a broken pang.

“Where does she live, Billy Boy, Billy Boy? Oh, where does she live, Charming Billy? She lives on the hill, forty miles from the mill. But she's a young thing and cannot leave her mother…” 

His mother’s laugh was like a bell. Until she got hit too many times, when she broke her jaw that once against the counter edge, and she stopped laughing.

She was humming his song, humming it for him as she pulled a sheet of cookies from the oven, warning him _‘be careful, it’s hot! Don’t touch it, Billy.”_ He wanted to sneak one of the cookies from the tray, still steaming with chocolate chips all gooey and good. He reached for one. 

She tutted him and spun him away from the old, rusting yellow oven, singing Charming Billy, sunlight spilling in from the faded lace curtains.

"Can she make a cherry pie, Billy Boy, Billy Boy, can she make a cherry pie, Charming Billy? She can make a cherry pie, quick as a cat can wink an eye, she's a young thing and cannot leave her mother." 

She winked at him, a dimple in her cheek. Everything was soft. Everything was warm in the sundrenched kitchen - from the oven, from summer, and Billy’s hair was still damp from the ocean. She led him in a little dance, like they was on a dance floor, even if it was only old cracked orange, geometric linoleum. It was a dance floor, just for them. 

“Okay. Just one.” She finally agreed. The cookie was warm when he bit into it, still gooey, sticking to his teeth, yummy – 

“What the fuck, woman? I’ve told him none of that shit before he eats his supper, he’ll turn into some lard-ass. You want that, huh? We’ve _talked_ about this –!”

“Neil – Neil it was only one cookie, just a cookie, it’s not – “ 

“…You talking back to me? You really think that’s the best thing for you to be doing?” 

He was close. He was dangerous. He set down his beer can. Billy was hiding behind his mother’s skirts. 

The back handed pop came fast from his old man, it always did. But this time was different. This time she fell. This time her head connected wrong at the side of the kitchen counter. Her jaw gave a sick crack.

There was no more singing after that. No laughter. And it was all Billy’s fault, the cookie still warm in his hand before he got it, too. Until he dropped it with the first smack, cowering.

But for a moment – for a moment – there had been the ocean. There had been light. There had been the smell of his mother’s rose perfume, her dazzling smile as she spun on the sand, as she spun him on the old kitchen floor, and the folk song he’d heard since birth. 

When she still loved him. Wanted him. 

And there was just pain. And his mother was gone. And then nothing. 

_’ Oh, where have you been, Billy Boy, Billy Boy? Oh, where have you been, Charming Billy?’_

***

Billy was cold. 

He was so…so cold. Sluggish with it, like a reptile without a heat lamp – no sun. Shivering with it, frozen. 

And it was dark. So dark, he couldn’t see anything – wasn’t even sure if his eyes were actually open. He flinched in the dark, this starless night – he was lying down on something hard, and even colder than him – his fingers wandered, searching – pressing flat against the smooth, even surface beneath him – icy steel, or some kind of metal. It was then that the pulsing in Billy's breast started, tearing him into two halves – with each pound of his heart, and it reminded him of something – of veins, turned black, black as ink, stuttering with his heartbeat like a cut on a finger. But it was – it was his entire chest; he felt _flayed open._ Like a goddamn fucking trout, pisshole to gills, a mess of guts and organs spilling out of him. 

He gave a wheeze as the sudden wave of pain gripped him, caught him in it’s grasp, wouldn’t let go. He seized up, a cough tearing it’s way up his throat, so dry it shook out of him like some kinda death rattle. His torn fingers smacked at the clanging metal below him, slapping to the sides then, searching for – for anything in the dark, but – it was just more metal. More, more metal – metal to the sides, metal above him. Below him. On all sides, like a box – like – it was a coffin. It was a coffin, _it was a coffin,_ he was – buried alive – he was – he - Billy tried to scream. Tried to scream, but his throat only gave a weak gasp as he clawed at the flawlessly smooth metal above him. Ragged nails catching at nothing. Desperate, frantic, scrabbling like a rat in a cage.

Buried alive.

 _“ANYONE!”_ He screamed, but only a whisper came out. A croak. “LET ME OUT!” But nothing. Hoarse, ragged air, and he couldn’t breathe, and the space was too small, not seen, but sensed – he would suffocate in here. No way would the oxygen hold out. He was going to die in a strangers coffin – with no one there to hear him scream. Just like before. Before what? Before, when – 

Billy screamed again. He screamed and he screamed and he screamed until his throat ached, soundless, and before he knew it he was thrashing, crashing his fists into the steel around him, hearing it bang and echo back at him, a war drum in his ears, even as he felt as weak as a kitten – he had to try. Even as it hurt, Jesus Christ it hurt, it hurt everywhere, and he could feel something wet – something wet growing against his chest, something hot and sticky against the cold chill that permeated his skin. 

_Please, please, someone – anyone – don’t let me die in here – I don’t want to die – please –_

“What the goddamn hell?” Came a voice at the racket. It sounded a million miles away – it could have been on the moon. It echoed strangely in Billy’s metal tomb. He tried to hit harder, smashed his fists weakly against the walls of that tomb, split open his skin, free himself somehow – the wet spot blossoming across his chest grew, spilled down his belly, pooling in his navel. He banged his knees up against the roof of the tin can all the same – because this was a place where nothing felt real, Billy didn’t feel real, nor his pain. Maybe he should just lay down and die, but his body fought it. His fingers slipped uselessly against the metal. He couldn’t _breathe._ The world of night with no stars spun. 

There came a clang, and a metallic cranking sound, before blinding light spilled into Billy's tomb. There was a rattle, and suddenly Billy felt himself rolling forward, the tray below him moving as if on wheels, still lying on the metal surface. But – there were suddenly too many lights, dazed blue eyes flinching shut against the glare. Fingers convulsing against the slick metal beneath him, desperately curled into anxious fists at his sides. Ready to lash out at anyone, before he was suddenly clutching them against his chest protectively, curling up against the light, too much, too much. And he was coughing, that awful, awful death rattle again, but it came out wetter this time, speckling his lips, and there was a buzzing in his ears. Then, the ear shattering blare of an alarm – like the alarm on his bedside table that woke him up at 4 am when he had to get up, his dad ready to whip him into shape – be a real man – clean the bathroom with a fucking toothbrush or what the fuck ever, and – maybe he was home, this was a nightmare, and this was the alarm to get up. Get up Get up! WAKE UP! It's a nightmare! You're dreaming! Fuck you, you piece of shit!

The voice came again, louder this time, followed by the crackle of static, like a radio. But Billy didn’t catch the frantic words.

Billy gave a desperate groan, and his aching front felt all sticky wet, too hot, and when he breathed, his breath rattled with the same liquid. Frothing pink spittle and black bile at the mouth. He tried to sit up, to get up, his dad would want him up – he needed to get up, _get up_ dammit, but when he tried to get his elbows under him, his feet, anything, they just slid out from underneath him. His head smacked back against the metal with a clang, wheezing wetly. Heart pounding in his ears, blood pounding everywhere, rushing, frantic - it was all he could hear, drowning out even the alarms -

“Pl-…pleea..a…mmm…o…” _Mom._ He whispered, dry sobbed, begged, lips bumbling, numb. Tears pricking under his eyes, before he realized his face was already running with them. Down his temples too, slicked back to his curls past the hairline. That, and maybe sweat too – he could smell it now, that sharp, bitter tang of fear. Sour. That, and copper, the strong scent of blood. And rot. Was it him?

There was a flurry of movement when he tried to open his eyes, but it was just a blur of nothing, of white and blobs of faces, and it was like he was at the pool again, everything running together like paint. People were shouting. Shouting at him. Asking him things. But he couldn’t understand, didn’t understand. Nothing made sense. Someone was pressing something against his front, something firm, something solid like wadded up fabric. Soaking up the wet pooling there. And it just…it hurt. Billy tried to sob, but nothing came out – his throat spasming. He felt like his chest was breaking apart. He thrashed, trying to get up, trying to get away.

It couldn’t take him again. It couldn’t have him. He'd rather die first. Really die. Was he already dead? He had to – he had to run, he had to get away. His body lurched and he felt bile burn up the back of his throat, bitter and vile, before he was spitting it up all over himself with a choking sound. He felt a prick jab into the side of his neck. He’d felt that before, a lifetime ago now. His fingers scrabbled weakly at the metal tray under him, and the white ceiling tiles above him dove and swam in his spotty vision. He’d played this game before. He knew what came next. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, slurring whispered pleas, nothing but air, eyes rolling in their sockets. 

Everything tilted. He didn’t want to go back in the dark again. Don't make him go back there.

But as his eyes slid closed, that’s exactly what he got. Dark.

Billy wanted his mother. And if he thought real hard, he could almost hear her. 

_Oh, where have you been, Charming Billy?_


	2. Rusting

It was still hot at the end of august. Muggy and gross, with humidity hanging heavy in the air, and the cicadas were still shrilling in the dwindling summer heat. It was weird that summer was gonna be over soon – weird that any day it would be fall, but Steve wouldn’t be going back to school. So much had changed this summer – all of them had changed, he guessed. The kids, and Steve too. Even Hawkins was emptier, different, a hole where the Byers’ used to be and the niche that Eleven had always fit into with the AV club nerds. Steve’s nerds. 

Another thing that the end of august meant was the closure of the Hawkins Community Pool for the season – and that? That was weird too. The pool hadn’t been the same somehow, not since Billy…died. Heather, too. Dead. It had settled a feeling of gloom over the pool, normally all laughter and cheer. It had all dried up with the violent deaths of two of the most beloved lifeguards. Even the mom crowd had stopped showing up, and the kids hadn’t opted to go back – not after the one time that they tried to and Max ended up crying in the girls bathroom and refused to come out, and nobody could go in to get her, because El wasn’t there anymore. 

Now they mostly just hung around Steve’s pool, at most, and Max was still pretty distant about it. Quiet. Eyeing the water like it somehow offended her, as Mike and Dustin drifted around on floaties, trying to urge her into the water. Mike had been even grumpier than usual lately. But Steve’s house had AC, she said, unlike hers – no need to get in the pool to cool off. So Steve had gotten her an Otter Pop and they sat in the living room and watched Magnum P.I. until Max didn’t look so much like she’d eaten something sour, and less likely to yell at Dustin. 

Steve kept trying to cheer her up, keep her spirits up, but there was only so much he could do – he knew she missed her brother. He knew they’d had a pretty…complicated relationship, and honestly, after Billy Hargrove had beat the shit out of him, and Max has warned him _‘away from her friends,’_ he hadn’t heard much from him, honestly. Like Billy’d actually listened to her. They hadn’t spoken – Billy had even stopped giving him shit. Avoided him almost entirely, or maybe it was the other way around.

They hadn’t…they hadn’t been friends. 

Steve had hardly known him. 

But he was still sad he was gone, like something was missing, wishing for Billy’s sake, and for Max’s, that things had gone differently. That they’d been able to save him like they’d saved Will. No one deserved that, and not to be saved. But Steve had been too busy being trapped in some underground lair to do shit, and even when he’d come around to things aboveground, he’d barely even known what the hell was going on until it was too late.

He wasn’t especially surprised when he got a call up from Max one hot afternoon, considering how frustrated she’d been with Dustin and Mike lately – and Lucas? – well, she’d broken up with Lucas. Really, this time, ‘dumped his ass,’ and Steve hadn’t seen much of him over the summer. He was doing things with his family, he thought, and right now they’d just gone on a vacation before school started back up. Steve couldn’t believe they’d be little Freshies at Hawkins High. It was too crazy. And Steve wouldn’t even be there to watch out for their little AV nerd asses. 

The phone rang, shrill through the Harrington Household, and Steve half launched himself off the sofa to head into the kitchen, snatching the thing off the hook before it could ring again. “Harrington Residence,” he started, wondering if it was a telemarketer – already twirling the curly cord around his fingers. He was halfway through a bowl of SpaghettiO’s still calling his name, and Star Wars was on TV. He couldn’t remember which one, but he was trying to get better at remembering for work, ‘cause Keith kept giving him all this shit, and - 

“Hey Steve.” Came Max’s tinny voice from the other end of the line.

“Max! Hey, what’s up?” Steve asked. 

He’d been trying not to coddle her too much. He knew she hated it – saw how everybody was still doing it. Always asking her how she was, how she was holding up, if she was hanging in there – she’d lost her father and her brother in one summer, did she feel alright? Max had said if another person called Neil her father, she was gonna scream. But she never said that about Billy, with him being her brother. Anyway – he tried not to ask her things like ‘are you okay?’ because it was honestly kind of impressive how much more she acted like her brother than even before, even if she wouldn’t admit it.

“I need your help with some stuff, you got time?”

“Yeah, I’ve got time. I don’t have a shift until tonight, at six.”

“Okay cool. See you in five.” Then she hung up. Steve blinked at the dial pad, still not sure exactly what ‘stuff’ meant, but it didn’t keep him from hurriedly slurping down the rest of his SpaghettiO’s before he headed out.

Steve ended up standing around in the driveway out back of the house on Old Cherry Lane, shaded by the green glow of the plastic carport, where the Camaro – Billy’s Camaro – was half tucked under an old, dirty, blue tarp, the same kind of blue as the bottom of a pool. It wasn’t the first time Steve had been here to pick up Max, but he’d definitely never been here before Billy, well, y’know. 

The car itself was just barely peeking out – as if the tarp was some kind of bandage over the rusting battle wounds. Steve winced slightly as he brushed his fingers against the extensive damage along the passenger side, the part where he’d rammed it with that hot sunshine yellow ride a few months ago. When he hadn’t even known what the hell was going on, acted on impulse, was still half drugged to the gills, and…. 

He frowned, fingers curling in against his palm as he withdrew his hand. He couldn’t change it. He couldn’t change what had happened. It was the past. 

Max was plopped down in the drivers seat as Steve braced his elbows on the open passenger window where the glass had been busted out, leaving the frame open. 

“Heya, Maxamillion.” Steve tried, smiling over at her where her hands were curled listlessly around the vinyl steering wheel, one foot on the petals, frowning out at the excellent view of the faded carport. “Whatchya doin’?”

“I’m going to fix it.” She said, tilting her face towards him through the sheen of her copper hair, shoving it impatiently behind her ear. Pale eyebrows lifting. “And I need your help.” 

Steve mirrored her, eyebrows inching up, drumming his fingers against the window well. “I mean – I mean I’m happy to help you with anything, y’know that, but…I mean I don’t know shit about cars, Max. I take mine into the shop even to get an _oil change_. I don’t really know what I can do.”

“Well, I do. My dad taught me some stuff, and…so did Billy. Sort of. Okay so I mostly just watched him a lot out here. I just…” She frowned then, mouth pinching tight as she turned to face forward again, chin canting down in stubborn determination. “I just need to, you know? I can do it, I know I can do it. You’re just – stronger than I am, and some of the dents are gonna need to be pulled out. And you’re kind of the one responsible for half of them. So. You owe him.”

Something hot twisted in Steve’s gut, two month old shame. He frowned and bowed his head, grip tightening slightly on the window frame. 

“Of course I’ll help you, Max. I…Jesus, you know I feel bad about that. I’m sorry. If I…I would have done it differently.”

“Yeah well…can’t change the past, right? And sorries don’t mean shit. Not when you’re – you know.. It’s just…I just need to do something. So – thanks. For helping. Sorry I – “ 

She tossed her tangle of hair in front of her face as she twisted away, snatching at the door handle to let herself out, even if the door stuck pretty badly. The whole thing was in…pretty rough shape. It was still a little unclear how the accident had happened on the drivers side, but Max had said that when Neil found out about it, he’d been fuckin’ pissed. It was after that that Neil had gone missing, and Billy’d been sporting that new mark on his cheek, like from a cracked cheekbone. Scabbed over black with poisoned blood.

“Look, I’m happy to help you. And you’re right, half that damage is my fault, and I never should have…but I can even help pay if or when we need to do any more expensive body work, yeah? I mean I have the money.” 

Max’s shoulders sagged slightly, as if in relief. As if she’d been ready to fight him on it.

“Billy has – _had_ \- some friends, at the auto shop over on Mulberry. So...they might give us an okay price. There’s still some stuff we can do here, though. But you’ve gotta be really careful with Lenore, or he’d be pissed. Okay?”

“Lenore…?” Steve started, unsure. 

“Yah. Lenore. Y’know? The Camaro? Didn’t you ever hear him call her that?” 

Steve shook his head, shoving back a few brown strands out of his eyes. “I’ll be careful, I promise. Scouts honor. And nope, can’t say I did. I mean, we weren’t exactly…close, you know? But hey, you wanna tell me about it while we get started? What do we do first? Reporting for duty.” He gave her a little salute, ready for work.

As Max started about getting out Billy’s tool box, brushing off spiderwebs and a few cicada husks, she popped the hood, then handed him a…plunger. Like a toilet plunger. Gross. He made a face at her, then at the dirty thing in his hand. He guessed he'd been around grosser - in the tunnels for example, but seriously. For a second – a brief second, she almost looked like she might smile, but instead she just snorted. 

“What the hell is this for?” he asked, handling it delicately, like it’d give him some disease just for holding it with his bare fingers. “Is this a joke? Tell me this is a joke.”

“Don’t be such a _baby_ , Harrington, _jeesh._ It’s for popping out some of the smaller dents. We’ll need to take off some of the paneling for the bigger ones, but like I said, I talked to some of Billy’s friends, so, that’ll be next – but I remember Billy said that you can use an old plunger for smaller stuff.” She said, half burying herself under the hood, voice echoing. 

Steve made a face at the very much _used_ plunger in his hand, trying not to be super grossed out. Even though he was a little endeared at the way she called him Harrington – it made him laugh low in the back of his throat, shaking his head at something like a memory.

“Okay, so, Lenore?” He asked as a distraction from the thing in his hand.

“Lenore. Yeah so, so he always said that it was bad luck to have a car without a name, kinda like a ship, you know? You have to name a boat or whatever. And it has to be a ladies name, and you treat your car just as nice as a lady, too. So, Lenore.”

“That’s some name.”

“He liked it I guess. I dunno. Okay so, that bucket of water there? Just get some water on the plunger side for suction, then stick it on the dent and pull. And I’ve got some vinegar, so, I’m gonna put it on all the rusting spots, but we have to leave it for a few hours to do the trick.” 

“Seems like a plan.” Steve agreed. He got the plunger wet, then started working on some of the smaller collection of dents, while Max used an old t-shirt to sop on some vinegar to the parts that were starting to rust over. 

“No no no not like that, Steve, like you just – you know like you just took a huge dump and you’re trying to unclog the john! Put some muscle into it, god.”

“Jesus Christ,” Steve glanced up at the heavens and tried again, willing himself patience. She really did sound like her brother. It was sorta wild.

“Oh and my mom said we can go to buy some new headlights later – she’s taking a nap right now though. She’s been getting these real bad headaches, ‘migraines.’ Ever since – you know.” 

“Yeah…yeah, I know.” Steve agreed, the busted metal squealing as he popped out another dent. It wasn’t perfect, still a little warped, but – better. Putting some muscle into it.

“She’s all – sad and moping around, but, but I’m glad.” Max huffed, the smell of vinegar sharp and tangy on the air as she splashed more onto the tattered t-shirt rag. “I’m _glad_ he’s gone. _Neil.”_ She said his name like she might say a curse, her lip lifting in distaste. Curling like Billy’s did when he was disgusted or annoyed. 

Steve didn’t say anything. He’d never met Neil Hargrove, didn’t even know the man. 

“He was such an asshole. Especially to Billy. And I could never - …. Just – good riddance. That’s it! Good riddance. The world’s a better place without that dick. At least he was one of the first ones to go, even if Billy…” Max paused, her throat working, blinking rapidly as she spilled more vinegar on the rag, movements aggressive.

“Hey – hey, you know Billy would be really proud of you, right? For everything you’re doing? Probably remembering everything he taught you…I mean plungers and - ”

“Billy was always out here, screwing around, when he wasn’t working out. Like there was always something to _fix._ Or, or polish or wax or wash or whatever. But I think he was just hiding out here. And I dunno, sometimes I just sat on the steps and watched, when he didn’t get too annoyed.”

“Hiding?”

“Yeah. From Neil.”

“That bad huh?”

“Worse. The worst.”

“Damn.”

Maybe he’d had it coming, then, but when Max said the worst – well, Steve believed her. He thought of how Max had told him it was only after Neil went missing that Billy got that nasty mark on his cheek. Like a broken china doll’s face, cracked open at the cheekbone, black, like he was hollow inside.

When they were finished, Max went inside to get them a few cans of Squirt. Not exactly Steve’s favorite, but he accepted one, leaning the plunger against the side panel and sliding into the passenger seat. 

It was weird, being in the actual Camaro. He’d seen Billy tearing ass around the tiny, sleepy town of Hawkins in this thing like he was always running from something. Like he had hellfire at the wheels. Maybe not…maybe not the best thing to compare with now, but…the sound of the engine, it had been like the sound of Billy. You could always know he was coming when you heard the growl of the engine, the _scream_ of the engine, announcing his arrival like a bang. 

Steve went still for a second in thought. He’d never been in Lenore before, _concious,_ never felt the way the dark leather seat would sink beneath him, or breathed in the smell of it – the sunworn leather, and the unmistakable spice of Billy’s cologne, like he’d practically spilled a bottle once. The old, stale scent of nicotine. But he’d always wondered what it was like, what it might be like. Steve had always liked cars, ever since he was a kid, especially hotrods. But his dad had said he’d needed something more conservative and reliable, and nothing under thirty K. 

Steve’s fingers flinched on the door handle as he glanced over to the empty drivers side, where he’d seen Billy lounging, arm hanging out the window with a smoke hanging from his fingers more than a hundred times. Aviator’s reflecting the world around him, untouchable. He wondered what it might have been like to be in here when Billy was still alive. Even back when he was so far out of Steve’s reach.

Max scrambled into the driver’s seat, still stinking of vinegar, sighing as she popped the tab on the can, staring mournfully out the cracked windshield again. She sipped at it, all noncommittal with a soft sigh through her nose, before swirling the pop around in the can.

“Gotta wait a couple hours for the vinegar to kick in, then when we wipe it off, it should get rid of a lot of the rust…that’s the real car killer…rust…” Max frowned down and pulled at the pop tab, making it ‘ping’ under her fingernail.

“Hey, how about some music, huh? I bet he’d like that.” Steve said, but Max just shrugged, her face still all pinched up. A pink flush high on her cheekbones, before she swiped at her nose.

Really he thought it might help cheer her up, listening to some of her brother’s old music. Though realistically, he didn’t really think anything much would cheer her up these days – and maybe that wasn’t what she really needed. He knew she just needed to process things in her own way, but Billy’s music certainly couldn’t hurt that.

The keys were still hanging from the ignition, and she leaned forward to twist them one position, just to work off the battery, not to start the engine. Just enough to get the radio on. It clicked a few times before anything caught. Steve was honestly shocked it worked, considering the thing had basically caught on fire.

Steve wondered if Billy had anything in the tape deck, but it was empty. He had no idea what he’d been listening to last, and he’d feel too weird rifling through the guy’s tapes. So the radio had to do. When the stereo popped on, and Steve tried to twist the volume dial up, the speakers fuzzed over – like maybe they’d been too banged up in the accidents. Max winced over at him and Steve turned the volume back down, and tried to spin the dial through a few channels, but all he really got was that – static. 

“Dammit. The antenna connection must have gotten hit. It’s too bad El isn’t here anymore,” Max said after a moment, her voice still distant and sad. “She could fix radios and stuff. Bet she could make it work.”

“I’m sorry, bet you miss her. And Will, and Mrs. Byers.”

“Yeah, a lot. You too?”

“Yeah. Me too. Them, and Hopper, and…” Steve nodded, sipping at the citrus sharp tang of the Squirt and wincing. “Sucks they moved off to Maine – but they said they might be back for Christmas, yeah?” He asked, tracking through the FM dial to see if he could find any other stations that might come in. The static squealed back. “So we’ll see’ em soon. But I guess it sounds like they’re happy, from the letter Will wrote me.”

“Will wrote you a letter?”

“Yeah – just a short one, about their new place.”

“Huh,” Max said, nose wrinkling, folding her arms tight over her chest like a little shield. “Didn’t write me one.”

“Probably still in the mail.” Steve nodded, trying to sound reassuring.

The radio squealed again as he rotated through the channels, and for a second, he thought he might have some reception – but he squinted, because it wasn’t a song he knew or recognized. Maybe it was an oldies station? Sounded like an oldie, maybe.

Max stopped mid drink, glancing at the radio, some of the Squirt sliding down the corner of her chin before she dropped the can and wiped it away, rough, with the back of her hand.

“Hey wait a sec, stay there.”

“You know this song?” 

He didn’t know how _she_ could – the reception came and went horribly, swinging wildly in and out, and most of it was just that same garbled static. Whining at them. There was only a hint of a song somewhere in it, like they were in a basement, or the middle of nowhere farmland. 

“I – I dunno.” Max said, and when Steve glanced over at her, he realized she’d gone a little pale under her freckles. “It sounds…familiar. Like I’ve heard it before.” She shoved her hair out of her face and up into a rough ponytail, snapping the scrunchie off of her wrist before she got a focused look. Turning up the volume dial enough that it almost hurt Steve’s ears, all crunching and wailing static over only a hint of a tune. Steve didn’t recognize it at all. 

“What the hell…” Max muttered to herself, taking a quick swig of her pop. “Hey, Steve – do you know this?” 

“No, I don’t think so – what is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”

“I…Steve…I swear I’ve heard this before, but…not like on the radio or something, it’s like, I think it’s the song Billy used to hum sometimes. When he was washing dishes, sometimes he’d hum it when he didn’t think anybody was listening, or in the shower. I never knew what it was though.” 

“Maybe it’s just one of his favorite songs?” And Billy? Washing dishes? 

“No, no I don’t think so, he only listens to rock and stuff, and this isn’t that, see? Listen.”

But Steve could hardly make it out ,but he guessed, if he listened really hard, it might have almost sounded like an old folk song or something, like a nursery rhyme maybe. Not really something you’d hear on the radio. 

“Hang on, hang on hang on, I need to grab my walkie, maybe one of the guys will recognize it – like Dustin - ” Max flung herself out the drivers side to run out of the car port towards the back door of the house, up the steps, outside of Steve’s line of sight. He twisted back to face the radio, studying it, wondering if he was missing something. So it was a song Billy hummed sort of? Sometimes? Why was that special? The radio gave a squeal of frazzled reception. The song came in just a bit clearer. A woman’s voice.

_“She liv-s on --- hill, f---y mil-essss ---- th- mill ---“_

The fine baby hairs at the nape of Steve's neck lifted, the ones on his arms too. The dome light flickered. Steve’s eyes snapped up to it. It flicked back off. On again. Which was a lot creepier with him alone in here now. Something sunk in the pit of his stomach, hard as a stone, and just as cold. He almost reached out to snap off the radio – to just turn it off – his hand was halfway extended. The domelight set off like a strobe above him, the green of the carport plastic lighting up with the broken headlights. Steve thought Max'd said they needed to be replaced. Steve felt a tremor in each limb shake him, fingers twitching – his bat was too far – all the way in the trunk of the Beamer, he’d never get there in time - _holy shit holy shit holy shit._ The windshield wipers suddenly gave an aborted swipe over the spider-webbed, cracked glass. Steve was suddenly scrabbling for the door handle, ready to make a desperate escape, when - 

_“St-ve?”_ Came a broken, garbled, tin can voice from the radio. It crackled badly like over a walkie talkie that was too far out of bounds. Steve froze, clinging to the passenger door handle, eyes as wide as chocolate saucers, bugging out of their sockets as he stared at the radio. He watched as the dial swung wildly all on it’s own, the little red line on the stations list rapidly dancing to each side. But the static didn’t change, or the voice that came underneath it. Suddenly it was silent. _“Steve?”_ Came the echo again. Like a haunted dream.

A beat, a breath. Nothing but static. 

_“B-Billy?”_


	3. Crazy

“No no no no, I’m not crazy, Max, I heard it! I mean, it was _him_.” Steve gestured wildly towards the Camaro a safe distance away under the shade of the carport – from here, it looked completely still, silent. Harmless. Totally not haunted.

Max was staring at him with those pale blue eyes, her mouth drawn into a flat line, one pale brow arched up, arms crossed over her chest. She looked completely unimpressed by him.

“You expect me to believe…you heard my brother…talking to you. Through the radio.”

“OkAY you say that like it’s _crazy,_ but – but you weren’t around for when the actual…demogorgon was around, okay? You didn’t see what – what electricity DOES. I mean, the kids must have told you – I mean they told _me_ – Henderson wouldn’t _shut up_ about it, alright? That…the time they tried to contact Will, through the walkie talkie? In the Upside Down? And how all the lights act, all - flickery? What happened with Mrs. Byers and the phones? I mean I know it sounds crazy, but it’s not crazy!”

“But there’s one big difference here, Steve. Will was in the Upside Down! And Billy…” She looked away sharply, huffing a breath and swiping a stray fluff of copper hair from her face where it’d fallen from her ponytail. “Billy’s dead. He’s dead. That’s it! And if you try for one second to tell me he’s a ghost or some _stupid shit - ”_

“But – “

“No!” Max threw up her hands, glaring at him. “No. He’s dead, I saw him die. I saw…” She swallowed hard, twisting her Vans on the cracked, crumbling cement of the drive. Her mouth twisted into a bitter, jagged shape, eyes overly bright. “I saw it, okay? I was right _there_. I SAW him die. I felt him go COLD. You’re probably just tired, or stressed, or – or you were just feeling guilty about leaving him to die like an asshole. Or if – if you think you’re being funny, you’re definitely NOT.”

“Woah hey, that’s not fair – “

“But it’s true!” 

“You were there too! And I wouldn’t try to be funny, I - ”

“Yeah but I didn’t ram his stupid car, either, dickhead!” 

That shut Steve up. For a second, anyway.

“I’m just telling you what I heard, Max! What I saw! The lights, the wipers, everything was going off. He _talked_ to me Max. I’m not tired, or stressed – Listen, I need you to believe me, okay? Something is going on!” 

“It was just shitty reception! The receiver’s busted! Drop it!”

“No, no if there’s one person who believes this, it should be you – “

“What’s going on out here?” Came a soft voice from the door – they both glanced up, startling badly. 

Susan was standing on the back porch by the door, her arms folded over the chest of her pale pink, silk button up blouse, and a cream colored wool skirt. Her red curls were swept up into a bun atop her head with a large barrette, and her bangs curled as if with a hot iron. She looked tired, though, under her makeup – the big dark circles under her eyes still obvious, her mouth more creased at the corners than Steve remembered.

“Steve’s just being a JERK – he thinks he’s really FUNNY -“ Max started to her mother, fists curled up at her sides. She sounded like she was on the verge of tears, furious tears. She was so red and flustered her freckles were even invisible.

“Hey – “ Steve started, swallowing hard.

Susan frowned, twisting her hands nervously in front of her, glancing between them, the Camaro in the garage, then back to Max.

“I think maybe it’s about time we call it a day. I’m sorry Steve, it looks like Max might be a little over tired, it’s been a difficult time for all of us. This might have been a bit too much, too soon. With the…car. Maybe you can come back another day? We can put a pin in it.”

“I – uh – yeah. Yeah, sorry Mrs. Hargrove.” Steve’s desperate dark gaze flitted back to Max, as if trying to communicate with his eyes to please believe him, but she turned away from him, arms crossing tight over her chest as she stomped up the steps towards her mom. Fox red hair frizzing into her face.

Steve frowned heavily and waved after them – but Max didn’t look back, though Susan smiled sadly, before the screen door slammed shut - leaving him alone in the humid August air, the Camaro sitting silent and still now beneath the crumpled blue tarp once more. 

Maybe he really was losing it.

***

“And you’re _sure_ it wasn’t a hallucination.” Dustin said for the third time.

“Yes! I’m positive. At least – at least I think I’m positive. I just – seriously, you too?”

“Well…Steve’s right, there was that time with the walkie, and we didn’t believe Mike until El showed us all together.” Lucas offered from where he was leaned back against the couch in Mike’s basement. 

“Well in that case, Max is also right, because Will was in the upside down for that. The gate was closed, and Billy died. There’s no way he could be there. We saw his body. There’s no way anybody could survive that.” Mike objected.

“C’mon guys, you’ve gotta believe me!” Steve said, shoving his hands through his hair for the umpteenth time, making it stick straight up. He was so fucking stressed, just like Max said, but -

“I mean, it might not be that far off what Max said…about if you’re feeling bad, or guilty, it’s understandable to want to believe…that he, well…” Lucas shrugged.

“Seriously?" Steve stared, shocked – usually they might at least try to have his back. “You guys saw Will’s body! In the Quarry! That didn’t mean he was dead.”

Mike just gave him a look. “But that was a dummy. Full of stuffing. I dunno. It just seems like kind of a stretch?”

“I’ll support you Steve!” Dustin said, giving him this little salute. “I believe you’re not just totally crazy and making shit up! If you say it wasn’t a hallucination, it wasn’t a hallucination.” 

Steve was touched, truly. “Thanks, Henderson.”

Dustin glanced to the others. “C’mon guys, I know he’s not technically a part of the party, but either way, if someone’s in trouble and needs help, isn’t it our duty to reach out to those in need?”

“We’re not super heroes, Dustin!” Mike snapped – he’d been extra grumpy since Eleven had moved away, Will too. But mostly Eleven, Steve’d noticed. “We don’t owe anybody, especially not Billy Hargrove, shit!”

“Woah you might wanna rethink that, he saved your girlfriend. He kind of saved all of us, actually.” Steve frowned at him. “I think we sort of owe him a lot.”

“Well he did plenty of bad shit before that, so maybe it just barely made up for that. Plus he killed all those people.”

“That wasn’t him, that was the Mind Flayer. You’re saying that Will meant to do all that stuff? Have the lab attacked and all?”

“Well – well no, but that was different – “

“I don’t think it was. I mean I know you guys tried to test him in the sauna or whatever, but, I mean why not tie him to a chair and tell him happy memories like you did with Will?”

“I didn’t see you doing that!”

“I was being attacked by Russians in some underground fortress!" Words he never thought he'd say, but there they were.

“yeah well we don’t even know happy memories for Billy, I mostly only remember him trying to run us off the road like a psychopath!” 

“Well what about Max?”

“I doubt she knew any happy ones either, from what she told me…” Lucas murmured.

Steve paused, blinking rapidly. Wait, not even max? No happy memories…from his own sister? But from what she’d said, they’d been brother and sister for a long time. This wasn’t some recent thing. That couldn’t be true. Everyone had…happy memories. Right?

“Fine. Fine! Look if you guys aren’t gonna help, then I guess I’m on my own – “ Steve said. He wondered if this was how Mrs. Byers had felt, back when everybody thought she’d totally lost her mind – talking to the lights and bashing a hole in the wall with an axe and shit. Maybe that'd be him next.

“Hey! Steve-o my man, I’ll help – “ Dustin waved at him like he’d forgotten he was there.

“Henderson! Yes. Okay, we’ve got this! We’ll figure it out. Team Harrington and Henderson, back in action.” He glanced back at the others. "Thanks for nothing, you guys."

***

But they weren’t back in action, apparently. Not really. Neither of them knew where to start – and it seemed pretty obvious pretty fast that Dustin mostly just seemed to be humoring him. He didn’t want to call Steve crazy outright to his face. 

And the more time that passed, the more Steve thought maybe the party, and Max, had been right. Maybe he was tired. Maybe he was stressed. Maybe he was guilty. So his mind had played tricks on him – it wasn’t the first time that would have happened, but usually Steve was pretty high when that kind of thing happened. He’d been completely sober in the Camaro. 

They tried what they could. They didn’t call anyone – not even Mrs. Byers, Will, or El,‘cause they all knew how the phones worked in this town. Who was listening, or could be. They had to try everything by memory – they got a bunch of lights in one room of Steve’s house, collected from all over. The living room, the den, the foyer, all gathered in a guest room. They sat around like that eating snacks and Dustin eyed Steve like was losing his mind as Steve tried talking to the lights. It had worked for Mrs. Byers, hadn’t it? 

"Uh, hey Billy. Um. It's Steve. Steve Harrington - you might remember me, maybe? You just called me Harrington, though." He glanced at Dustin and cleared his throat self conciosuly. "Or there was that one time, in the shower, when you called me Pretty Boy, which was...whatever. But uh, we were on the basketball team together, which might be a happy memory for you? Not really for me, but...oh and that time that you beat the shit out of me, you seemed pretty happy then..." 

Nothing.

So that didn’t work. They brought up the box of Christmas lights from the basement, even though it was still a few months away. Steve almost threw up when they got strung up on the wall. This seemed like asking for trouble, and it wasn’t a pleasant reminder of the past. Not a good memory at all. But they did it. 

“Letters, she drew letters on the wall.” Dustin pointed out. 

“My mom would KILL me, if I painted letters on the wall. I can’t just paint letters on the wall.”

Dustin took a patient breath, shoving more popcorn into his mouth from the fresh batch they’d just made – trying to communicate with lights or whatever was tiring business, so snacks were very important. He had a black and white Composition book in his lap with the words ‘Billy Hargrove Communication Trial Runs’ written across the front in black sharpie. Whenever they tried anything, or Steve kicked a light over, or they turned on the radio and Steve tried to put it on static, Dustin would nod and make a note with his blue BIC pen, on some kind of little graph or table or something.

“Okay.” Dustin said, as if for the third or fourth time, and he was trying to keep that patience. “So remember? What we talked about? This is a series of multiple trials, so we need as many repetitions of the experiment as possible to have an accurate read out of our results. We’re following the Scientific method to try and confirm our hypothesis, by collecting data. The outcome of this can either prove or disprove our original hypothesis – that Billy Hargrove is somehow, alive and communicating with us. Or, more specifically, you. We’re following the original conditions set previously, that we know have yielded results, right?” 

Steve had no idea what the fuck he was talking about, but “I’m not painting letters on the wall.” 

“Do you want to communicate with Billy or what?”

“You make it sound like some kind of a séance!”

“This is science, Steve, not superstition.”

“I would like to know one sciency thing about this whole Upside Down thing that actually makes sense! That isn’t just science fiction!”

“Well, even science fiction is in fact based in science – “

Steve groaned. “None of this is working, Henderson!”

“Well we need to complete the entire set of trials!” Dustin ate more popcorn – squinting slightly against the bright lights of each lamp in the room turned on, shades removed. Carefully tracing over a line for one of his Line graphs, darkening it in blue ink.

“I’M NOT PAINTING ON THE WALL. My mom would have kittens, alright? No way. No way is that happening. NO.”

Dustin looked up at Steve with a carefully neutral face, clearly not feeding into Steve’s hysterics. “You know I’m the only one that actually believes you, right? And I’m trying to help you. You have to follow the original conditions to yield the same results.” 

“But these aren’t the same conditions – Billy can’t be in the Upside Down, Mike and them were right, so how can – “

“Well, this could be a lot of different things Steve. I don’t see how Billy could be in the Upside Down, but if we’ve learned anything recently is that it probably isn’t impossible. Also, we know that El’s mom could access the Upside Down somehow – through the lights, and she wasn’t there, was she? She was here, even in a vegetative state. So.”

Steve flopped down onto the bed of the guest room, face down into the duvet, arms limp at his sides. Like a dead fish. He made a grumbling sound into the mattress, muffled by fabric. 

“Is that a yes?” Dustin asked him.

Steve made more grumbling sounds.

“Excelleeeeent. Then let’s get to work!”

By the time they finished painting the full alphabet in bold, blocky letters on the wall, strung the Christmas lights up, (and Steve was trying to figure out how to paint over it without his mom ever noticing or being the wiser,) it was clear that hadn’t worked either. The lights just glowed away, bright and cheery and christmasy, and nothing happened. No flickery lights, no lit up letters, nothing coming out of the wall. Zip. Nada.

Steve glared at Dustin.

“This is not my fault.” Dustin said, eyebrows raising up as he marked in that stupid book of his. He called it a ‘scientific journal.’ Steve was going to rip it up, he thought. “That’s just the result, and it was an important piece of data, even if it's a negative."

“This was your idea!” Steve said, staring up mournfully at the bold black letters on the wall of his mother’s guest room, drips of paint running south from each one, smudged in places. 

“We’re only missing…one thing now.” Dustin said slowly, lifting his eyes up to Steve. It gave Steve a bad feeling right in the pit of his stomach, the way Dust said that, the way he looked at him. 

“Oh god. What now?” 

“Well…none of these trials have yielded results, it’s not promising… and you’re right – they were based off of the original conditions of Will being in the Upside Down, which is the closest we have for comparison’s sake. But so far, the only thing that we’ve been able to get any results from? Well…it was when you were in…y’know. Billy’s old car.”

“….the Camaro.” Steve said, voice quiet, like a question – but not.

“Yeeeah. The Camaro.” Dustin said, voice a little uneasy as he rubbed at his neck. He took his hat off, then put it back on.

“And well, Max has made it – pretty clear, what she thinks of you right now, and I don’t really know if you’re going to be able to…”

“Yeah. Yeah uh…I don’t think she’s gonna let me anywhere near that thing. Not now.” Steve agreed. He chewed dully at the inside of his cheek, rubbing a hand over his face and then scrubbing it through his hair – he needed a shower pretty bad. His hair was kinda greasy. He had to work tonight.

“Well….” Dustin drew his legs up to sit cross legged on the edge of the bed, staring up at the stark black letters painted on the guest room wall, where there had once been three paintings of roses in vases hanging up next to the four poster queen bed. “I guess…we could always go and talk to Mr. Clarke. He has the HAM radio. We could give that a try, too. But besides that, we’re sorta running out of options here, Steve my man.”

***

“Well hey there, boys!” Mr. Clarke smiled at them as he got the front door open after Dustin had run the bell like eight times. “This is a pleasant surprise. Well Steve Harrington! I haven’t seen you for a couple years now, have I?”

Steve smiled warmly at his old science teacher, even though he was a little shocked he still even remembered him. Steve had been so shitty at science, but sometimes Mr. Clarke had had a way of explaining things to him that had sort of made sense. He’d told him, back then, that Steve just had a different way of learning things, and that it was okay. That was the last science class Steve had passed with more than a D, once he’d gotten out of Middle School and moved up to Hawkins High. He'd always had a way of teaching in a way that Steve had understood, even if it wasn't with a book.

“Hey Mr. Clarke, good to see you,” Steve offered, extending a hand, and Mr. Clarke shook it with a firm grip. 

“My liege,” Dustin bowed a little then immediately shuffled in through the door without needing to be invited. Mr. Clarke laughed and ushered Steve in too, closing the door behind them. 

“Sorry to bug you, Mr. Clarke.” Dustin said.

“You’re never bugging me, Dustin, you know that. But what can I help you with? School doesn’t start until next week, you know. And gosh – you know, it’ll be so strange not having you in my class this year, Dustin. You’re Highschool bound! Go Tigers! Not a Cub anymore.” Mr. Clarke smiled and headed into the living room – he was wearing a little sweater vest and a long sleeved dress shirt even though it was the end of August, and a pair of khakis with only socks on.

“SO weird. We’re gonna miss you, Mr. Clarke.” Dustin frowned at him.

“Well, this isn’t goodbye, is it? You boys can always visit any time if you have any questions, or need paddles for your curiosity voyage. Can I get you drinks? I have apple juice or milk.” 

“Oh no that’s cool, Mr. Clarke.” Dustin said at the same time Steve said 'Apple Juice.' “Actually, we’re sort of here for that exact purpose. We’re on a curiosity voyage,, you know, the usual. But I was wondering if we might be able to use the HAM?” 

“The HAM? Well, I mean – you know I do have it, right now, because of summer, so it’s not at the school, but…what’s this about, Dustin?”

“Oh, you know,” Dustin gave Mr. Clark his best little adorable-chipmunk smile. “Just trying to get ahold of somebody in Australia! Or my – girl…friend? You know, my lady.” He made that horrible purring sound. Steve gave him a look to please stop. Dustin stopped. “Ahem. Yes. I miss her. Very much.”

“Yeah, y’know, Henderson he – he spent all summer away at that sciency camp – Camp Know-it-all .” Steve nodded knowingly, gesturing vaguely toward Dustin with one hand, the other perched atop his hip.

“Uh, Camp Knowhere Steve. Camp _Knowhere._ ” Dustin corrected with a harried sigh. “And yes, I did meet my beautiful lady there. Suzie.”

“You might have mentioned her once or twice," Mr. Clarke said, "well can’t you just call her on the telephone?”

“She…doesn’t have a telephone.”

“Oh. But I thought you made that fancy radio? You told me all about it, remember? I believe you referred to it as the Cadillac of HAM radios.”

“Well…that is true. That was my next option, if the HAM doesn’t work. But I also wanted to run a few things by you, I’m having some trouble with failed results of an experiment, and I thought we could try to rule out a few things that might be affecting the data…”

Steve started zoning out as they started speaking freakin’ Geek-speak again, studying the photos on the wall as Mr. Clarke led them into the garage. He had a whole bunch of nerdy lookin’ stuff in here, like little models and action figures and junk on a big work bench across the wall that looked like it was meant more for tools ‘n things. He got the radio turned on and there was a some of those big headphones next to it, like the ones you plugged in at the library to listen to those giant tape players. 

They left Steve there with the monster radio in the garage that looked like it belonged on Revenge of the Nerds, and Steve tried not to laugh about it. Mr. Clarke was helping them, so he probably should be nice and all. He also really liked Mr. Clarke, he’d been one of his favorite teachers. Steve frowned at the huge piece of machinery, and sat down in front of it, tentatively sliding the big, teal, plastic headphones over his ears. They blocked out most of the sound, including the distant chatter of Dustin and Mr. Clarke talking just inside the kitchen.

He fiddled with some of the dials and controls – curious if he could get 98.1 on here. He liked that station, they played the best music. He messed around with it some but couldn’t seem to get any kind of normal radio stations on there, so he didn’t see what the purpose of the thing was if you couldn’t even listen to music on it? Dustin had said something about talking to Australia. Steve didn’t even know anybody in Australia, or really anywhere else for that matter, and he didn’t think Mr. Clarke did either. What a piece of junk.

Dustin had said that they’d been able to hear Will on this thing, but that Eleven had also been the one that was dialing in the correct frequency, and they couldn’t really do that without her here – but again, he said, they had to follow the exact ‘original conditions’ or whatever. Steve figured he just meant that everything had to be the exact same way as it had before, to try to get the same thing to happen – same ‘results.’ To him, it was more like they just had to cover all their bases, like in baseball. That’s why they weren’t using Cerebro, but they could as a last option. 

He said it was some fancy thing from X-men – Cerebro. Steve didn’t really know a lot about X-men, but Dustin sure did. He said it was some big giant brain, sorta, this metal chamber on X-men that the bald telepath guy – Professor Xavier? – could sit in the middle of and it would amplify his crazy brain powers and he could reach out to all the minds of the whole world, which was honestly pretty trippy if you asked Steve. He guessed that was why Dustin had called it Cerebro – it could reach across long distances. Even into the Upside Down? Hadn’t this radio here done that same thing?

Steve was boredly playing with the controls, spinning dials absently, expression distant. He wondered what Mr. Clarke and Dustin were talking about – he knew it was something to do with reaching Billy, about their ‘trials’ or whatever Dustin kept carrying on about. Steve guessed he was pretty grateful, honestly. For Dust. He was helping him all he could and he knew all this crazy sciency stuff that Steve didn’t really understand. If it’d been Steve, he probably would’ve just been wandering around calling Billy’s name, like they’d called Will’s name in the woods, sounding like a total nutjob. They probably would’ve locked him up over at Pennhurst with all the other loonies. And at least Dust seemed to believe him – at least, sort of. He seemed to be the only one that would even give Steve a chance. 

It didn’t help, though, that even Steve sort of felt like he was doubting himself. Maybe he’d really made up the whole thing in his head, but he didn’t really know why he would. He didn’t think he was THAT guilty – it wasn’t like he was the one that had killed Billy. Right? Maybe it was more than that. Maybe he'd finally gotten too many knocks to the head - or maybe that creepy serum they'd jabbed into his neck was slowly eating away at his brain. But Robin seemed fine.

Steve needed a distraction. He grabbed the heavy looking microphone and eased it towards himself, like he was one of the announcers at a baseball game. Like he was the broadcaster Harry Caray for the Chicago Cubs. “Welcome to the 1985 Chicago Cubs Season. It’s opening day for the Cubs, ladies and gentleman, and hooooly cow, that number thirty two, Johnny Abrego – we are looking forward to good things from him – it’s a beautiful day, not a cloud in sight, and – “ 

The desk lamp meant for painting models flickered off, casting the garage into darkness. The glowing dials on the dash of the radio flickered like a disco ball.

“Didn’t k-know you liked the Ccubs.” Came a soft voice in his ear, broken, scattered. A voice he knew. “T-typical.”

Steve yelped and jumped back so hard from the radio that the headset wire got yanked from the jack – he tipped straight off the back of he stool he’d perched on and the mic squealed as it got knocked over on it’s side with a heavy ‘thump.’ Steve hit the cement floor of the garage, scattering little painted figures around him as he struggled to stand – his heart hammering about a million miles a second, thundering in his ears like the drums at the Fourth of July parade. No way. No WAY. He stood there, the radio still and silent in front of him, the headset tossed to the side.

The door to the kitchen flung open – the light was on again, the radio dials lit up and glowing. Perfectly normal.

“Steve!” Dustin gaped at him from the top of the steps, the bright sunny yellow of the kitchen behind him – Mr. Clarke looking over his shoulder, wide eyed, with a line of confusion between each brow. “Steve?” Dustin repeated. 

“I heard him – I HEARD him, Dust. Clear as DAY. Like he was standing right NEXT to me!” Steve half yelled – unable to control the volume of his voice. His hands were shaking, a tremble in his bones he couldn't seem to stop.

Dustin stared at him for a long minute, then quickly grabbed the headphones from the floor, shoving them on over his curly hair and Camp Know-it-all cap, messing with some of the dials. He shoved the cable back into the jack.

“This is AlphaDustin410, Hawkins. Come in. Go ahead, over.” There was a pause as Dustin tapped at the mic. “Anyone there, over?” he shook his head after a minute, glancing over his shoulder at Steve.

“What’s this about, boys?” Mr. Clarke asked, heading down the rickety steps with a glass of Apple juice in his hand, probably meant for Steve. 

Dustin blinked, then immediately put up one of his big cutesy smiles at Mr. Clark. 

“Nothing! Nothing. Oh nothing, you know Steve – probably just messing around, what a goofster – we’ve gotta go! Thanks for the help Mr.Clarke, a lifesaver as always, My Liege!”

Dustin bustled Steve out of the house and back into the Beamer, Mr. Clarke frowning at them from the front window, a thoughtful look on his face – like he was trying to figure out a puzzle but none of the pieces were matching up. Steve hadn't even touched the apple juice.

Once the doors of the BMW clicked shut, and it was just them, Dustin gave Steve a very serious look. Serious for Dust, anyway. “Steve.” He said.

“Dustin.” Steve said, wiping at some of the sweat across his forehead. He was so freakin sweaty. He felt like he was going to be sick.

“I…there was no one there, Steve. It was a dead channel. Did you say anything? What did you say? What did he say?”

“I…I didn’t say anything! I mean I…I sort of did? I wasn't talking TO him. I was just…messing around, I was acting like an announcer for the Cubs, you know? Like Harry Caray, ya know, Hoooly Cow?” He asked desperately.

“I don’t know anything about Baseball, Steve!” Dustin gestured wildy. “But did you – I mean did you talk to him, did you say anything to him - ?”

“N-no! I mean he…he said…that I liked the cubs. And that that was – t-typical.”

Dustin just stared at him like he’d lost his mind.

“The whole POINT of us being there was to try and make contact, Steve! And when it happens, you – break the connection?”

“IT FREAKED ME OUT, okay! I wasn't expecting it!”

“Yeah, like you freaked out at Max’s! Clearly, he’s trying to make contact here, and you’re not helping!” Dustin let out a low, long breath, took off his cap to hide his face, smoothing a hand over his face to gather himself. “But…it disturbs me that it was just you. This is the second time now, when we’ve tried this and you were the only one to hear.” He turned those big bright eyes to Steve, so serious now. Calmer. “I didn’t hear _anybody_ , Steve. Nothing.”

Steve immediately felt his hackles raise, defenses going up, even with Dustin. “So…what? What you, you think I’m imagining it too? That it’s just – in my head.”

“I didn’t say that, Steve. That’s what you’re saying.” Dustin replied carefully. 

“Jesus, no, I mean – “ Steve shook his head sharply, turning his face away to gaze blindly out the drivers side window, not seeing anything. He rubbed at his jaw, a nervous gesture. Trying to think. 

Dust was RIGHT. Max hadn’t been there to hear Billy in the Camaro, and now Dust hadn’t been listening to the HAM. Just Steve. And Steve – there wasn’t any special reason why only Steve would hear him. He’d barely known the guy, not really. Maybe he was losing his goddamn mind. Maybe that Russian bastard had finally knocked a few screws loose after the last couple beatings he’d taken from Jonathan and Billy. Or that serum was driving him insane somehow.

“I know it seems crazy, I know. But – I mean – if you’re right, if he’s trying to make contact or whatever…we’ve gotta keep trying, right?” Steve said weakly. He didn't know what to believe.

“The trials aren’t yielding any results,” Dustin said softly, like Steve was gonna cry or something. “School starts on Monday. Maybe it’s time to just…consider that maybe…”

“It’s all in my head?” Steve asked, jaw clenching tight.

He didn’t see why his brain would – make that up. Billy and him weren’t friends. He hadn’t even talked to him since the last time Billy beat the shit out of him at the Byers’. Knocked him out with a fuckin’ heavy plate to the head. 

He didn’t see why he’d be imagining Billy Hargrove talking to him through radios. Making fun of his taste in baseball teams, of all things. 

*** 

Steve dropped Dustin off at his house. Then, he put away the lamps in their respective places, with the shades intact. He put the strings of Christmas lights back in the box marked X-MAS in the basement. He painted over the letters on the wall with primer, and waited for it to dry – until he could add the next layer from the touch up paint in the garage. 

The house spread out around him, a quiet, lonely museum of expensive fixtures and wall hangings, an unlit fireplace in August, with lights that remained steady and a television set that played Cheers like nothing was amiss – filling in the ugly silence of his home that always hovered just at the peripheries. Always having to keep the TV or the radio going, so he didn't hear it.

Steve threw a TV dinner in the oven, one of the Banquet one with the mystery meatloaf. He sat on the couch, and watched the sitcom, and tried to think. He tried to think about who to call. Dust had been the only one to believe him. Hop was gone – Hop would have believed him, maybe. Joyce and El, they might’ve, or Will. They could have helped him, he thought. Told him he wasn’t crazy. But he couldn’t even call – not with the way the phones were all tapped. Maybe they could use Cerebro, but they were so far. Maybe the HAM would have worked for that. But didn’t you need a radio to talk on one? He didn’t think they had one of those fancy things. Unless El counted. Did she count? Could you just….zap her the message directly somehow, over the radiowaves? Hell, Steve didn’t know how it worked. 

He needed their help. But they were all the way in Maine, an impossible distance. They probably didn’t even know what was happening. How could they? 

***

“So write a letter, Dingus.” Robin said as they lounged behind the counter at Family Video, picking at one of her nails with the chipped teal nail polish, frowning up at him. 

Steve popped another tape into the rewinder, pressing the backward triangles button down. He made a noncommittal humming sound.

The place was dead, and he’d been trying to explain what had been going on with Robin – she was mostly caught up on all the shit at this point, but there were still some parts that were hard to explain. Like just how crazy not only the Russian Government was, but how crazy the American one was – she hadn’t seen that part of things, hadn’t really dealt with the lab. Hadn’t had them show up on her doorstep and made her sign away her life. Threaten her family, or her.

“But what if they like…intercept the letter?” He asked.

Robin arched a thin, perfectly manicured brow at him. “Intercept, huh? They’re not gonna intercept it. They don’t care what you’re writing to wherever.”

“I feel like they probably could. Or would.”

“Just don’t put a return address, and drop it into the blue mailbox over by Bradley’s. Then they’re not gonna know it’s from you.”

Steve considered that. It seemed like a good idea – it was better than using the phone, anyway. 

Robin smiled, passing him another tape. “You can even wear a disguise if you’re so concerned?” 

It really was a good idea. 

“Do you think I’ve totally lost it?”

“What?” Robin asked with a sly voice, giving him a once over, eyes wide and disbelieving. “You, imagining that you’ve heard Billy Hargrove speaking to you from beyond the grave? Crazy? No.” 

“Oh yeah, ha ha.”

“I mean really Dingus, I don’t have an answer for that." Robin shrugged, a little flippant, and moved to sweep her hair up intil a pile on top of her head. "Maybe you are a little crazy. But aren't we all?"


	4. Sins

It was late – some time had passed, and nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Steve’d sent the letter, and was waiting on a response – any sort of response. But maybe he’d sort of resigned himself to the fact that he’d just been making everything up in his head, reasons unknown. There was no way Billy could be alive. And no one believed him. 

He decided to give it one last shot – based on what Dustin had said about the Camaro, about how they had known at least that it had ‘yielded results’ or whatever. He parked the Beamer a few blocks away down Old Cherry Lane, close enough that he could walk to number 4819. He’d been drinking a little bit, earlier, but he’d sobered up now to the point of being here – on the road that led to Billy’s old house. Max still hadn’t talked to him, so this wansn’t exactly a planned visit at two in the morning. 

Steve kept to the shadows like a total creep, thinking about how he was definitely trespassing and probably going to get arrested or something for being a peeping tom or some shit – but he just had to get into the car port. He crept around to the back of the house, wishing he had his nail bat, but knowing that if he did get caught that was the last thing he needed to be caught _with_. The battle wounded Camaro was still under the tarp, and Steve slid part of it off of the hood – just far enough that he could get the drivers side door open. It was totally dark in here, with only slats of moonlight filtering in through the hail-worn holes of the plastic green roof.  
He swallowed hard, and slid into the driver’s seat. It felt unnatural, somehow - like he wasn't the one that belonged here. The dark leather creaked beneath him – it smelled a little bit like smoke in here, on top of the faded old cologne and nicotine. He reached up to pat at the underside of the visor, and tugged out the keys like he’d seen Max do before. He slid the car key into the ignition, every sound resounding as loud as thunder in his ears. He paused, wincing at the sound as he turned the key just enough to get the battery running. The radio popped on, as if it had already been on before the last time the car was running. 

It was still nothing but static. Steve knew he shouldn’t be here, knew this probably wasn’t going to work, knew he’d probably just tumbled somewhere into the hazy edge of insanity somehow, without realizing when or how…but he needed to know. In the dark space of the car, trying to keep quiet – keeping the volume on as low as he could, while still being able to hear, he spun the dial. Searching through stations, just like before. Dustin said that you had to create the same conditions. 

The static fuzzed over louder, then crackled and hissed at him. Then it went silent, went soft. Only a voice was left. The dome light flickered, then went out. The wipers gave a half aborted swipe.

“-nngton.” 

Steve froze in the seat, breath suddenly coming fast – he hadn’t known if he’d expected it to work. He stiffened all over, but told himself he wasn’t going to freak out. Couldn’t break the connection again. He wouldn't, couldn't. C'mon, Harrington. Keep your cool, keep your head in the game, you've got this.

“Billy?” Steve replied softly – it felt like talking to himself, but – 

“St-ve.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s me. Steve, it’s Steve Harrington.” Steve breathed, keeping his voice low - couldn't get caught. “Can you hear me?”

“Y…yea….-teve.” 

“I’m here! I’m here.” Steve blinked suddenly, slowly smoothing his hands through his hair, sweeping it back. This was working. Holy shit, this was actually working. And maybe he was totally batshit, and was imagining all of this, but if he wasn’t? If he wasn’t?

“Cold.”

“You’re…you’re cold? Okay – are you….are you alive? Where are you at?” 

“D-dunno. ‘s…dark. Cold.”

“Is it…I mean, what does it look like? Anything? Like Hawkins, but…backwards?”

“N-no…just – dark. I’m…. – a room ? - ” the static fuzzed over again, badly, then faded. His voice came back. “ – people here. Hurts. St-ve. Hurts. Please.”

“People? There are people there?” Steve asked urgently, leaning in so close to the radio his nose was almost touching the buttons beneath the ‘Camaro’ signature. 

“Bad – people. Hurts – dreamed, dreamed about you. Baseball – “

“That wasn’t a dream! You weren’t dreaming! You talked to me!”

“ – Drea-ming…now….?”

“No it’s not a dream, not a dream. They’re hurting you? But you’re alive?” 

“-,,,-,,,dunno…dunno….’m….dead?”

“They couldn’t hurt you if you’re dead!”

The radio fuzzed over badly, then steadied.

“I’ve gotta know where you are, to come get you. I’ll come get you, okay? I just need to know – “

There was a crackling sound like a sob. “Donno, I donno – where I am – the _shadow_ \- please, Steve – my, my mom - “

Steve paused – he didn’t know what to say, he didn’t know anything about Billy’s mom. He only knew about his step-mom, Susan. He knew that nobody had shown up to Billy’s funeral that was supposed to be his mom, and he’d assumed, at the time, that she must have been dead. 

“Keep – seeing – my mom – “ Billy breathed hard into the static. 

Steve didn’t know what that meant – like dreaming about her? Like he thought he’d dreamed of Steve?

“Seeing her? Like – dreaming? Like you were dreaming about me?” 

“N-no….no….dunno….donno….” The connection seemed to be getting weaker, fading out.

“Billy, anything – can you give me anything? Anything at all, you know, about where you are?” 

“Wo….ke up….in….a coffin? Buried – buried me, dead….hurting, _hurts_ ….cold….he…likes it cold. Like a…hos-ital? Like…hell. I think it’s – hell. D-damned, I’m _damned_ \- I can’t - _h….help, please – “_

The light steadied above him, the wipers lay still. The radio was just plain static, no words, no song, no nothing. Disappointment swept through his chest, even as horror built up tight there. Hell. Billy had said it was hell, or like it. Maybe he really thought it was - thought he was damned. But where was he, really? It almost sounded like he'd said hospital...

“Billy? Billy!” Steve said, trying to bring him back. 

The porch light suddenly snapped on over the back door to the house – he could just tell through the rear window. 

Steve tugged the keys from the ignition, tucked them up above the visor, and slid out of the car, shutting the door quietly behind him. He tried to hug the shadows of the car port to get out, but – 

“Steve.” Came a flat voice. 

Steve froze, half hanging onto the edge of the carport where he’d been about to sneakily ninja his way out of the place and into the night, but….

“Uh.” Steve said. “I can – explain?” 

Max stood at the top of the stairs, frowning down at him – she looked pale and small under her curtain of copper hair, smaller than before, somehow, in her black and blue star wars pajamas. In bare feet, she padded down the steps towards him, toes curling against the cracked cement. She looked so tired, her eyelids puffy – she looked worse than the last time he’d seen her.

“You can explain being in my brother’s car at two AM? Because I’d love to hear that one.”

“I…” Steve swallowed. He had no excuses. He didn’t want to make her mad at him all over again, ask him if he thought he was being ‘funny’ like that. “Okay I know this is pretty weird, but – “

“Dustin called me. A few times.” Max sighed and stepped a little closer to him. She came to lean against the covered rear of the Camaro, between the busted taillights, hugging her arms around herself. She didn't look at him. She gazed into the backyard, and the little shed at the end of it – towards where the forest began. 

“He says you might be having some kind of a breakdown and that we need to be patient with you.” She glanced at Steve. “You look like I’m gonna call the cops on your or something. I’m not. I’m just….” Her shoulder sagged. “You acting like this is making things so much harder. I – tried, you know. I tried to listen, on the radio. I couldn’t hear anything. Dustin said he didn’t either. Please…please, stop.”

Steve was caught between wanting so desperately to tell her what he’d heard – he’d gotten so much information, but – she wouldn’t believe him, and maybe he would just make it worse. Maybe he _was_ having some kind of breakdown. Who knew anymore? 

He had to handle this on his own. He had to wait for El, if she ever replied. She was his last hope. Like on Star Wars.

“I’m sorry, Max.” Steve said. And he was. So he left. 

***

When Steve got home, he wrote down everything he could remember Billy saying. He wrote down about the coffin, about dreaming, about a hospital of some kind. About his mom, about Steve. That it was cold, that it hurt. There was a room. It wasn’t a backwards Hawkins. Some of it sounded like it could be the Upside Down, some of it sounded like the lab. It was so hard to tell. And the lab was GONE. Right?

But if Billy was hurt, if he was cold, surely that couldn’t mean he was dead. He had to be alive somewhere. Trapped. The first thing he thought of was the coffin. He’d woken up in a coffin? Billy hadn’t been buried. Not really. They’d had a funeral, but Max had said they’d never been allowed to recover the body – that he’d been too contaminated or something - something about radiation, maybe. But they’d all known he was dead. 

Billy couldn’t have woken up in a coffin – his coffin had been empty when it was laid in the ground, just full of some stuff Max had put in there, like some of his favorite records, and his stereo, some jewelry from his mom – just not the necklace, or his ring. They’d gotten that stuff back, but Max kept them – she wore the necklace, his medallion, but the ring had been too large for her tiny fingers. 

Steve waited on a letter that never came. 

Instead, one day, the doorbell rang. And when he opened the twin red doors, Mrs. Byers, El, and Will were staring back at him, all smiles. 

“H-holy shit! Hey guys! Hey!” Steve exclaimed, abruptly giddy with relief, with seeing them again. With the fact that backup was here.

Mrs. Byers immediately leaned in to give him a hug, holding him so tight that she could have been his own mother – if his mother was a hugger. Steve held right back on to her. He’d missed her so bad, he hadn’t even realized how much until this second. 

“Oh sweetie. Oh, we’re so happy to see you.” Mrs. Byers said. 

“Hey,” Will said with a soft smile and Steve patted him on the shoulder as Mrs. Byers drew away. 

“Hi Steve.” El said, in that general stilted way that she tended to talk. She sort of hovered behind them, smiling at him a little shyly – she was wearing one of her bright new outfits, looking less like a bit of a farmhand than before.

“Thanks. Thank you guys for coming, c’mon in, please – can I get you anything? Did you, I mean did you just – drive here? Where are you staying?”

“Well we left as soon as we got your letter – “ Mrs. Byers explained as she took off her light jacket to hang it on the coat rack in the foyer. All three of them took off their shoes by the door – they’d all been to Steve’s house before. “Maybe just some water?”

Steve got everybody into the living room where they could settle on the twin couches in front of the television set and the fireplace. He passed out glasses of water, sure they’d had a pretty crazy long drive to get here.

“We haven’t really had time to look up a place to stay or anything.” Will explained.

“Oh well you could stay here if you need to? We have a lot of guest rooms, and the couch, and a pull out sofa in the den, too. There’s plenty of space, and the pantry's full.”

“Do you need to ask your parents, sweetie?”

“Oh no uh – no, they’re gone right now. They won’t be back for a while, I don’t think they’ll care.”

“Billy.” Eleven said.

“Yeah – yeah, that’s why I wrote you guys.” Steve said as they all sat down. 

“Jonathan’s sorry he couldn’t make it, he wasn’t able to get off of work.”

“I’m sorry that you had to, you know, take the time off…I didn’t mean for you guys to have to drive all the way here…”

“Well it certainly sounds important, and if there’s even the possibility? It’s best to make sure. If it was my Will that was trying to reach out? Well.” Mrs. Byers fondly patted Will on the top of his little bowl-cut head, making him blush and hunch under his mother’s loving touch. “Well we all know what I would do.”

“Nobody else believes me.” Steve said sullenly. "We even tried the stuff that you did, but nothing worked. But I heard him. He talked to me again - I went back to the Camaro. He said more this time." He handed her the spiral notebook he'd jotted it all down in with his chicken scratch handwriting.

“Well we believe you. Don’t we?” Mrs. Byers asked, turning to the other two children as they all glanced over the quick notes Steve'd scribbled there.

If anyone would believe him – he knew they were the ones that would. Will lifted a hand to the back of his head as he studied the words Steve'd written, frowning slightly, his eyes drifting out of focus, and he nodded in agreement. 

"Thanks," Steve said again, softer this time. He really coudln't express...how much it meant. That they believed him. That they'd help.

“Do you have a – picture?” Eleven asked slowly, looking at him with those big brown eyes from where she'd been studying the notebook, too. Steve wasn't sure if she could actually read, though. Maybe she could now. He knew Hop...Hop had been teaching her.

Steve blinked, trying to think – yeah, yeah, he guessed so. “Um yeah, hang on – I’ll be right back.”

He took the stairs two at a time up to his room to grab his Senior yearbook out of his desk, then headed back down, a bit more slowly as he was paging through. Searching out a picture of Billy. He found the one of his senior portrait, scowling in black and white glory at the camera - though there were plenty of others in the yearbook to choose from – he’d been a popular subject for the yearbook team last year. Playing basketball, walking the halls, smoking out at the Ivy, prom king. 

He spread the green and silver Tigers yearbook out on the table, tapping at the black and white photo and pushed it across the coffee table towards El. She leaned over to examine it, running a small fingertip over the edge of his paper cheek. She made a sad, contemplative sound, then looked up, her face calm. 

“I can find him. If he’s here – I can find him. Hiding.” 

“She’ll need a blindfold – maybe like a dish cloth or something?” Will offered. 

Steve got up to get his mother’s best tea towel – the ones with the little daisies embroidered on the front.

El put it on. 

***

Billy dreamed of his mother. And he dreamed about Steve. Sometimes, he thought he dreamed of Max, too. The dreams were as shifting as sand under his feet, and he could never seem to catch hold of them, hold them in one place. He could never remember them afterwards, not really. He only remembered that once he thought that he and Steve were talking together about Baseball, out on the field of Hawkins High. But there had been no stars in the sky, and no world beyond the green of the field, the glare of the floodlights. They'd had an entire conversation about it - Billy'd been giving him shit, like usual, but...

The song his mother sang him haunted the dreams. Haunted his mind. Oh where have you been, Billy Boy, Billy Boy? Where have you been, Charming Billy? 

He mostly thought he was dead. Maybe the dreams were just shadows of the afterlife – but if he was dead, he didn’t think it would all hurt so much. He didn’t think he’d be so cold – wasn’t the afterlife just, nothing? Wouldn’t you just feel…nothing? 

But no...he knew why. Billy’d been raised Catholic – his mother had been a practicing Catholic, and he’d been baptized Catholic as a baby. Always went to mass with her, growing up. He supposed that if you got possessed by a demon, or Satan him-fuckin'-self, that you probably weren’t going to be given a proper burial in hallowed ground. Especially if you hadn’t been practicing for a while – when you were a lapsed Catholic – when you weren’t even sure what you believed anymore. He didn’t even think he’d been exorcised properly, there hadn’t even been a priest. He thought he could still feel it, sometimes - the Shadow. And he certainly hadn’t confessed in a while…a long while. Too long, he thought. He was totally fucked.

His mom had always said that even if you didn’t believe in the devil, the devil believed in you. He thought now, that it was true. 

So maybe this was just hell. Maybe that’s why it hurt all the time – he was totally in hell, and he was just going to be tortured for all of eternity. This was it. Being bled out over and over and over again, jabbed with needles, with cords and tubes and wires trailing out of places he didn’t even want to know, stuck to the sides of his head with tape. Gripped over and over in waves of excruciating pain that he couldn't even process - until he was biting through his tongue until he tasted pennies, and everything went black again.

He was 99.9% sure he was in hell. And he was pretty sure that he’d deserved it – had it coming, his whole life. It was difficult to focus on the reasons why – when he tried to think about his life _before_ he was in hell, the details were blurry, like trying to look through frosted glass. Always outside looking in, from the cold. He couldn’t really remember. 

But he remembered his mother. And he remembered Steve. And he remembered Max. 

So he dreamed of them. He could hide in his dreams.

He dreamed of them so he didn’t feel the pain, so he didn’t have to feel the searing hurt of it all, steady and consistent, constant in a way he’d endured his entire life. He thought he would have been used to it by now, but he couldn’t remember why. Even before he was ever here, before the Shadow, too. Had he always been hurting? He thought so. But why?

And then he dreamed of someone else.

He dreamed of a girl – around Max’s age, he thought. She almost looked familiar, like he had her name on the tip of his tongue. He just couldn’t put a finger on it, on who she was.

He lay in a black space – there was nothing but black here, and it was cold, so cold. He’d been here before, in this void – like a night without stars. He was distantly aware of _why_ he was laying down – he was still strapped with the leather straps to the bed in Hell, he was still there, where the rough leather had rubbed his wrists and ankles raw with fighting - until he just couldn't anymore. 

He couldn’t get up. But the girl stood by his bed, where the cords spewed out of him, covered him like vines - the void behind her, and stared at him with large, all-seeing eyes. Like she could see into his soul or something. She swam a little, in his vision, a bit like if he was on drugs or something, but he didn’t remember taking shit. 

She wavered before him like poor reception on an old television set, or like she was under water, before she came back into focus. She leaned towards him, hand reaching out, mouth opening. 

“Billy.” She said.

The word echoed in the vacuum of space and time around them, this empty black place. Her fingers grazed his cheek, like a memory. 

Billy choked back a sob, searching for her name, for words. Please, he wanted to tell her. Please. He didn’t want to be in hell. He’d do whatever he could, take back whatever he could. He was so sorry, so sorry, for everything that had gotten him here. Maybe – she was an angel. Maybe she was the Mother Mary. Maybe she could help. Maybe she would listen.

But no, he thought bitterly. No, he was damned, he knew that. Damned to rot here for eternity, damned to burn in hellfire just like…just like that man had always said. His soul was hellfire bound, for everything he’d done in California. The things he’d done.

And here Billy was. Like a prophecy come to life. Burning for his sins.

_Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death..._

The girl with the mousy brown hair and big soft brown eyes, so much like _Steve’s_ , but all knowing somehow…shimmered like a mirage. Billy felt himself whimper. Didn’t want her to go – don’t leave him here alone, please, please. He couldn’t stay here. Didn't want to be dead. If she was Mary? Would she hear him?

But she didn’t seem to hear his words when he spoke, his frightened, babbled and desperate prayer. She blipped out like a television screen that had been turned off, leaving only the darkness, only the darkness and Billy. Alone. He screamed, he was sure he screamed. 

But there was no reply. Not for this sinner.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading beautifuls! You can find me over @lemonlovely on Tumblr if you'd like


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